


International Love(s)

by facade



Category: Football RPF, Portugal NT RPF
Genre: M/M, Portugal NT - Freeform, one shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:31:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1890339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facade/pseuds/facade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Portugal NT One-Shots</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hail to the King (Miguel Veloso/Cristiano Ronaldo)

**Author's Note:**

> **Cristiano Ronaldo/ Miguel Veloso**
> 
>  
> 
> Sweden v Portugal || Second Leg of the Playoffs for the 2014 World Cup Qualification

> _Watch your tongue or have it cut from your head_
> 
> _Save your life by keeping whispers unsaid_

Cristiano groaned as he rolled out of his bed and collided with the floor; some asshole outside had suddenly started blaring their music and he was quite certain that the sun wasn't even out as of yet. He whined a bit to himself and squeezed his eyes shut whilst rubbing at the back of his eyelids, fighting back the urge to tantrum on the floor as a five year old would. He seriously didn’t have time for an early wake up call; they had their second leg against Sweden later on in the evening and he needed his rest, he needed to relax. As he picked himself up from off of the floor, he found himself glaring over at Miguel who, beyond all belief, was still snoozing – the man seemed to be capable of sleeping through anything, yet his features softened as his thoughts evaded him and went elsewhere... ((No)), he couldn't.

Cristiano slowly looked away from the other man, biting his bottom lip as the images slowly fled him, and made his way over to the curtains, pulling them back as he peeked out and down towards the sidewalk below, groaning as he caught sight of the RIXFM banner surrounded by large speakers. He glanced over at the bedside clock and noted that it was already 0730 - he’d be waking up soon anyways - so he settled himself down on the edge of his bed and flicked on the television, making sure to knock the volume down to a quiet whisper. The light flooded into the room as the images flickered across the walls, none able to capture his attention until he caught sight of an image of himself on the screen. More hype about the game, more head to head with Zlatan – nothing new, nothing to stop too long for. He sighed and flicked the television back off again, staring at the blackened screen for a bit just before reaching out and checking his phone, frowning as he read one of his messages from Jorge asking if he wanted to press charges with a link below it to Sweden’s Pepsi Maxx Facebook page. The winger shook his head in quiet disbelief, disappointed by the discovery of the Swede's voodoo doll, made to represent himself, lying against the rails of a railroad track; it seemed as if Sweden wanted to play mind games and he couldn’t help but laugh at the desperate measures - useless. Cristiano shuddered as he saw the voodoo doll now with hundreds of pins stabbed into it and practically threw his phone at Miguel’s sleeping form before collapsing back on to his bed to stare up at the ceiling.

“It’s alright, Cristiano.” Miguel’s tired voice resounded from within the comforters of the other bed, somewhat muffled and barely audible but he knew he was being awakened by Cris’ phone because his words were needed. “You don’t have to prove yourself to anyone – and even if you did you already have – but I know you and I know that you’ll show them, you always do. Whatever is upsetting you is probably just hype or nerves before the game.” Miguel sniffled and looked out from within his mountain of blankets over towards the man lying on the bed beside him. The dejected look on the older man’s face pulled at his heart strings; he hated seeing him like that but he was never one to try anything with his teammates, let alone his country’s captain.

Cristiano peeled his narrowed sights from the ceiling and glanced over at the lump in the bed beside him, offering the face peeking out from within the covers a small smile. “There is a voodoo me on Sweden’s Pepsi Maxx page, Miguel, dying in various ways. I don’t think that’s a call to prove oneself, I think that’s a death threat.” Cristiano tightened one side of his lips and raised his eyebrow as the thought crossed his mind. “Oh and there’s a DJ outside blaring music in case you didn’t notice.”

Miguel chuckled, he hadn’t noticed until Cristiano had pointed it out and now it was all he could hear. He sighed as he grabbed the phone off of the top of him, his smile disappearing as soon as the screen flashed on for him. “Oh shit, you were being serious. That’s, that’s just disturbing, Cristiano.” Miguel glanced over at the man beside him, finding his captain in a state of shock and disbelief. Deciding that there was no way he was going back to sleep after seeing those images he pulled himself up out of the bed and laid down beside the left winger with a sigh. “You’re going to be fine, Cristiano. Fortunately, there are no trains at the Friends Arena but we can always call ahead and have security double check.” Miguel smiled as he heard the sound of Cristiano’s lighthearted chuckle and felt his heart flutter. “Besides, stuff like this always seems to draw out the best of you.”

> _Death is riding in the town with armor_

The first half was intense, intense enough to have him standing in front of one of the bathroom mirrors. He was already going through all of the missed opportunities he had had, his teammates had had, and all of the chances Sweden had squandered. As he scooped some water up from the running faucet and quickly ran his hand through his hair, he decided within that moment that he wouldn’t miss too many more of those – he couldn’t. No more missed chances. His country needed hope, everyone was going through difficult times and needed something to look forward to – he would be that hope. He had to be.

Cristiano was pulled from his thoughts as he felt a warm hand cover his shoulder. He turned and met Miguel’s concerned look, sighing as the words of the younger man reached his ears. “I know you hear them chanting Messi out there but they’re only doing that because they're frightened, they're afraid. They know we're knocking at the door. Don't worry, Cris, you’ll show them what happens when they provoke the monster.” Cristiano could hear his chuckle, wishing that he could be so carefree within that moment, and felt himself being pulled in for a hug. He needed that almost as much as he needed to hear the whispered “you’ve already done so much for our country, more than any politician has done. You gave them hope, now let’s go out there and give them a ticket for the World Cup.”

“I’m using that for the speech I’m about to give to the rest of the team.” Cristiano chuckled as he dragged Miguel with him in rejoining the rest of the squad.

> _Blood is spilled while holding keys to the throne_

It had only been five minutes since the sound of the whistle had reached his ears, an indication that the second half had begun, but Miguel knew the moment Cristiano went streaking forward in the fiftieth minute that this was it. This would be that crucial away goal they so desperately needed; they had put one foot in the door in the first leg and now, now they were halfway there. He knew Cristiano would be the one to do it, the one to deliver but seeing it, seeing that ball in the back of the net that day within that moment, did something to him. He burst forward and lazily hugged the three men who were clad in red already waiting for him beside the goal. He wanted to kiss Cristiano, right then and right there within that very instant. No, that would have to wait – possibly for never to come – but all he could muster up the courage to do was yell “looks like they forgot to run the train on you!”

> _Born again…_

Miguel groaned as the referee blew his whistle and started seeing more than the red of his teammate’s jerseys as his temper flared. It was a dive, a horrible one at that, but it didn’t matter anymore as the whistle had been blown and the free kick had been given in a crucial area. It was…! And he was…! He felt his stomach twist as he lined up on his side of the wall, away from his captain and he hated himself within that moment for bringing that look of exasperation onto Cristiano’s face. He hated himself even more when Zlatan brought Sweden level on aggregate because of that free kick goal. If he ever got hit by a train, he figured that this would be a comparable feeling. The look on Cristiano’s face, that look of sheer frustration as the ball flew right between Joao and Nani stabbed him through his chest and pierced his heart several times. Within that moment he knew that (fortunately) the Swedes had messed up and had somehow 'cursed' Portugal’s number four rather than their seven. Silly Swedes, he thought as he jogged back into his starting position.  

> _…but it's too late to atone_
> 
> _No mercy from the edge of the blade  
>  They'll escape and learn the price to be paid_
> 
> _Let the water throw it's shades of red now  
>  Arrows black out all the light_

Cristiano sensed it, something in the air had told him that it was his turn to bag his brace. Sweden was pressed forward and as soon as Almeida launched the ball through, as soon as he had latched on to it, he knew that this ball would be saying hello to the synthetic fiber of the home team’s net. The swooshing sound of the goal was euphoric and the cheers of their traveling fans was pure ecstasy and he had no intention of coming down. “I am here.” That’s all he could think of shouting as his teammates rushed over to him.

Miguel reached him first, echoing his actions by saying “you are here” but was crushed when he realized Cristiano was looking beyond him. He wrapped one of his arms around the neck of the older man and filled his ears with praises and apologies for conceding the free kick, continuing to do so even as the rest of his teammates arrived. He searched for the winger’s eyes unable to find them as they were trained on the ground. He had never felt so desperate to be heard; even as the group separated, exposing himself and Cristiano to the eye of the media as a result, he found himself thoughtlessly reaching out and gently sliding his hand down his captain’s cheek, tenderly kissing the opposite as he did so. He fell against the chest of the man and voiced his admiration of him into the crook of the number seven’s neck. He glanced up, delighted to find the dimples of his fellow countryman as he pulled him in for a hug. The cameras were on them but Cristiano returned the kiss on the neck anyway and followed it quickly with a [playful] slap on the ass, sending chills throughout Miguel’s entire body as soon as it had made the contact.

“You liked that, huh?” Miguel looked up questioningly at the taller man, grinning playfully as he nudged the winger with his shoulder. “Huh?” And another nudge. “Huh?” And another. He heard Cristiano mumble something about cameras and something else about time but he didn’t care. Cristiano’s returned kiss on the neck had given him a flair of confidence and before he found his way back into his starting position, he made sure to throw his head back to give the winger another kiss on the neck – thrilled to feel the older man lean into it.  

Not even two minutes later, rinse and repeat.

> _There's a taste of fear_  
>  _When the henchmen call_  
>  _Iron fist to tame them_  
>  _Iron fist to claim it all_
> 
> _Hail to the king, hail to the one_  
>  _Kneel to the crown, stand in the sun_

* * *

Miguel sighed as he entered into their shared room, his body started to hang like dead weight as soon as he had caught sight of the bed and his legs felt like they were on fire. He sunk into the sheets and contemplated taking a proper shower, one that involved more water than champagne, before deciding that he could die like this. He heard the knob of the room turn and could feel the cold draft sneaking in as the door opened but he was too tired to think about who it could be though he knew that the chances of it being Cristiano were pretty high. “I’m dying. Figured I’d go out on a high note.” He could hear Cristiano chuckling as he responded snidely with “going out after conceding a goal on a free kick isn’t a high note, Miguel” and thought seriously about throwing something at the other man before deciding that he was too exhausted for that. “So, he scores a hat trick. I told you that your voodoo doll would bring out the best of you.”

“I don’t think it was that Swedish voodoo doll,” Cristiano chuckled as he felt his cheeks turn pink; he silently thanked God that Miguel was intent on dying face down on the bed as he nervously rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh, I just wanted to thank you for that pep talk at half time, it really pulled a number on me.”

Miguel chuckled into the sheet covered mattress and turned his head to find Cristiano leaning up against the desk – nervously? – shifting his weight off of one foot and onto the other. “What are you talking about, Cristiano? That was your speech.” Sure he was being sarcastic but his smile was genuine. Miguel rolled off of his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows, furrowing his brow as his mind raced in an attempt to figure out why Cristiano was even here, in the room. “Why aren’t you in Nani’s room with everyone else?” Going out in Sweden was out of the question after the spectacle they had just put on, that was for damned sure, so Nani had declared his room to be party central. Sure, his spirit was in definitely in party central with the majority of the squad but his body was definitely in hell right now, though he could easily attribute his sudden fatigue to something mental, the something standing across from him.

Cristiano shrugged and tried to fight the smile that had started forming on his lips. “Everyone else isn’t in there, you aren’t in there. You’re right here.” He felt edgy, which wasn’t a common feeling for him, and his thoughts had become borderline neurotic since he had felt Miguel’s lips against his neck earlier in the evening. It wasn’t as if a kiss on the neck from Miguel was rare, it wasn’t, but he had sensed something else in that kiss, something more than appreciation. He had tried dismissing the thought as a possible result of his wishful thinking but when Miguel had placed his lips against his skin a second time… “I’d rather be here, I guess.” Cristiano slowly walked towards Miguel’s bed and sat down on the edge of it, praying that he was right and that he wasn’t about to make himself look foolish.

He literally pinched himself when Cristiano fell back into the bed, the captain positioning himself just centimeters from him – close enough for Miguel to feel the warmth of his body heat - it just seemed too surreal for Cristiano to choose to be here with him rather than with the (literal) rest of the team. Miguel bit his lip as he worked up the resolve to look at the man beside him but eventually found himself drowning within the depths of Cristiano’s eyes. Everything around him seemed to blur, it was almost like a dream he didn’t want to wake up from. Miguel wasn't sure of when they had both decided to turn the rest of their bodies to face one another but when he noticed that their faces were a mere few millimeters apart, that he could just barely feel Cristiano’s lips when he drew in – air? How the hell was he even breathing? Suddenly he regretted every exhale his body forced him into and found himself trembling while gasping for air.

He wasn’t sure of how long they had stayed like that, staring into one another’s eyes as their lips nearly met, but the very moment the space between them closed, Cristiano regretted every wasted millisecond that preceded the kiss. No, he had decided, no more wasted time. No more wasted opportunities. This, this was his time, his year.

> _Hail to the king_


	2. The Pulse of Portugal (Miguel Veloso/Cristiano Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Miguel Veloso / Cristiano Ronaldo**
> 
> He wanted to walk up to him, pull him into his arms, tell him how he wished that he could have done better for him – for their country – but he kept his wishes silent, knowing that they were being made to a god of a past they would never see again. It was too late – for him, for them – the whistle had been sounded, the pulse of Portugal had already flat lined in Brasil.

The sound of that whistle stopped more than the game that day; it stopped more than the running of legs, more than the last minute cheers from the supporters, more than the clumsy challenges getting ready to be made for the ball. Yes, that high pitched shriek stopped more than the game that day; it had stopped the beating and the pounding of hearts by the millions, (that whistle), it stopped every one of the hearts of the twenty-two players sweating on the pitch and brought them all falling, crashing to their knees in disbelief – every single one of them... It was finished, done. They were finished. Silence befell two distant lands and the last gasp breaths of the two nations watching from afar were finally released as they still clung tightly to their colors, pressed their flags to their chests and let their tears fall into the fabric of 'home'... Oh, it was all over now. It was all done. Finished. A whistle? No. A gravel as the representatives before the tear filled eyes were found unworthy, a gravel falling and crashing down against a solid surface to serve the twenty-two a death sentence. A mere whistle? No. It crushed and shattered the dream, the dreams of not one of the countries but of both... One now faint sound, one shared thought of "not enough" and their dreams of glory were gone like sand within the winds. Metal pressed between the lips of an indifferent, one sound and he was shattered, they were shattered. A whistle? No, it was their finality, his finality. The flat line of their home, the flat line of their people, the flat line of a country... the flat line of Portugal.

Miguel watched as Cristiano slowly fell apart and disintegrated beneath his surface, never once showing the full nature of his pain and frustration on his face but he knew him better than that, knew that the bottom lip of the other man was probably bleeding between his teeth and knew that the usual rhythmic beating of the Madeiran’s heart had probably already been replaced with the sound of glass shards on a thrumming bass system. He wanted to walk up to him, to pull him into his arms and to find his ear with his breath, to whisper to him how he had wished that he could have done better for him – for their country... He watched as his captain stood in disbelief and disappointment but he kept his wishes silent, knew that they were being made to a god of a past they would never see again. It was too late – for him, for them – the ~~whistle had been sounded the~~ pulse of Portugal had already flat lined in Brasil.

The group of death, they had called it. It's such a funny name for a group when there’s always two pulses in every group that stop, that flat line. Two. Never any more and never any less. To fall, to flat line against the unforgiving edge of the blade on a goal differential though? That was a death that flattered no one. No, there was no glory to be found in such a death. There were no songs to be sung. There were no words that could ever, that would ever... So no words were exchanged as the red shirts made their way down the tunnel after they applauded their supporters high in the stands. There were no sounds of regret echoing off of the walls of the tight corridor, there were no silver linings of the situation put on the forefront, no lighthearted jokes muttered between friends. No. Each man already knew what the man beside him was thinking, was feeling – wishing that he had just done more, wishing that he had just been sharper... The group of death, they had called it and oh, what an atrocious death it had proved to be. Slow yet still too sudden. Painful yet the knife hadn't gone deep enough, they hadn't pressed deep enough. Agonizing. 

Cristiano glanced over to where Miguel was standing, three lockers from him, the frown on his face deepening further as he found the man simply staring into the empty spaces in front of him. He knew that he was probably blaming himself in the same manner that he was blaming the man looking back at him in the mirror, knew that Miguel was thinking about the goal that Gyan had struck past him with his head. He knew that the other man was thinking about the goal that he had deflected in, knew he was probably wishing that it had been two. He pulled his bottom lip in between his teeth and glanced at his feet then back to the number four again. Yes, he was thinking of the other two games, as well. He was thinking, thinking, thinking and saying nothing, nothing, nothing. He wanted to walk up to the defensive midfielder, wanted to pull him into his arms, wanted to find his ear with his whispers to tell him that he had wished that he could have done better for him – for their country... He watched as Miguel finally moved, leaned forward to press his forehead against the inside of his own locker. He swallowed his need and kept his wishes silent, knew that they were being made to a god of a past they would never see again. It was too late – for him, for them – the ~~whistle had been sounded the~~ pulse of Portugal had already flat lined in Brasil.

Bento drew in a large breath and stood before them all, his ‘I’ve failed you all’ clearly inscribed all over his face as he stared into the eyes of the men before him, their ‘I’ve failed you, mister’ seemingly written in thick, black ink all over theirs. He had nothing to tell them that they weren’t already telling themselves, no apology to make because he knew that his boys knew how sorry he truly was. Even then, words could never be enough for such an apology; instead it was a quick nod of the head, an apologetic frown, and he walked away, finished with his speech. The locker room was just as silent as the tunnels had been: none of the empty reassurances no one wanted to hear were spoken, no jokes were made to make light of the situation because surely such a thing would result in a darkened eye, no whispers of at least we won – because no, no they hadn’t won. Battle fought. Battle won. The war? The dream? Lost. Lost. Lost.

Miguel sat by Cristiano on the bus to the airport, only the silent exhales of their breathing exchanged between the two them. He could see the tiredness in the eyes of the older man, the exhaustion written all over his face, his ‘I’m tired of being at the focal point of every Portuguese headline’ (because surely, that's where he'd be) in the way his shoulders slouched against the cushion of the seat. He wanted to pull his face within his hands and remind him that this was a country, a team, not a man, an individual but he knew that the number seven already knew that. He wanted to hold his face, look into those eyes, and assure him that this wasn’t his doing, that they all should have done better for their country, but he maintained his silence because the should have’s and the could have’s did nothing for the history that had already been written. 

The three hour flight back to Campinas from within the heart of the Amazon was probably the longest of any of their lives and it had definitely been their quietest. There were sounds of sniffles and the sounds of tissues ruffling as they were pulled out from within holders, but not much else beyond the humming of the jet's engines. Cheeks made wet by salty tears were made visible as a teammate would make his way to the bathroom, complete with red eyes of dryness, but not a single hand was extended nor a word whispered as the one was merely a reflection of their own selves... There didn’t need to be anything else on that flight, there couldn't be anything else. This was to be, had to be the remnants of Portugal’s World Cup dream: sniffles, dry eyes, tear stained cheeks, broken men - disappointment. There were no joyous media outlets waiting for them as they de-boarded the plane from Manaus, there were no smiles flashed for the clicking of the cameras, there were no nods of acknowledgment nor were there any middle fingers for that one reporter who had the audacity to call their captain an honorary American citizen.

The numbness, the disbelief fled him as he became overwhelmed by the disappointing feelings of the day, the pain of the week, the heartache of the campaign. All at once, the feeling of the soft sheets pressing against his back were replaced with the weight of the crest crushing against his chest and he felt himself choking under the pressure of it. The feelings of the soft, goose-feathered pillows beneath his head were quickly replaced by the constant and all too familiar pain of his country; to have given them so much hope and to return with nothing, nothing, nothing... Another campaign with Portugal, another failure, another win for the critics, another victory for that little voice within his head. Cristiano let his first tear of the night fall, let it roll all the way down his cheek and let it fall to the white of the sheets beneath him. There was a sound, the sound of his door opening and clicking to a close, yet he remained unmoved... He didn’t need to turn his head to see who had joined him as he heard the steady sound of the rhythm of his heartbeats slowly return back to clear, strong thumps; it didn't sound as if there were shards of glass atop a vibrating sound system any longer and he knew why. He knew. He felt his breathing return to normal at the feeling of another person sinking into the bed beside him, at the feeling of fingertips ghosting over his wrist and tracing the veins just beneath it, at the feeling of himself relaxing immediately at the touch, and at the feeling the weight of the crest lightening as the touch - his touch... He felt himself relax as he was reminded that he wasn't carrying it alone. He began to drown in the thick fragrance of sandalwood and orchids: drowning, drowning... Gone.

Miguel sighed as he felt Cristiano’s head fall gently to his shoulder, as he felt the other man drift off and away from this place of disappointment, and leaned his cheek gently against the gelled hair of his captain, closed his eyes, and gently drifted off in thought to the steady rhythm of the other man’s pulse beneath his touch. The only pulse of Portugal he needed to feel. He didn't need to think about that forlorn look nor that frown on his captain's face, not with the contented smile on Cristiano's face he could see in a mirror's reflection, a slight tilt at the corner of the older man's lips. No, he didn't need to think about the flat line of Portugal, not with the steady rise and fall, the steady -thump, thump, thump - of the only pulse that made him feel... He glanced down at the man on his shoulder softly smiling as he caught his eyes. "So are you ready for the Euro's?" The pulse of Portugal? Flat lined? No, only preparing to rise like never before. 


	3. Hold the Sun (João Moutinho/Cristiano Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Cristiano Ronaldo / João Moutinho**
> 
>  
> 
> The hands of Father Time never seemed to move when they were together: a minute turned into a lifetime and a lifetime became little more than a grain of sand falling to the bottom of glass, a mere moment that seemed to pass too suddenly

He heard his name being shouted, heard "João" echoing off of the empty stands and heard it being carried off to some far away place with the day's gentle breeze. He wondered if the person searching for him would ever find him, part of him dreaded the thought of being found, the other part of him was beyond ready to be found. He chuckled silently as the voice started calling out more than his name... "I know you're here, you little shit!" He heard the laugh of the other and choked down his own outburst. "I still smell like shit because I was waiting for you to pop up in the locker rooms for your shower but you never came, Joãozinho! You never came, you fucking troll!" A few moments of silence until... "I have a nose like a bloodhound and I know you reek! I'll find you!" He knew that the other would be successful in his quest; lying behind the bleachers was such a cliché he knew and accepted that his discovery was inevitable. That simple truth didn't mean that he was willing to help the other man out, though.

He didn't know how much time had passed since the other had first set out to find him but, as he heard the relieved "there you are", he knew that it would be holding still for a moment. The hands of Father Time never seemed to move when they were together: a minute turned into a lifetime and a lifetime became little more than a grain of sand falling to the bottom of glass, a mere moment that seemed to pass too suddenly ...And yes, in that moment the sun seemed to still itself in the sky above him and all he could seem to do was smile into the warmth of its presence as it fell upon his skin, as it slowly seeped beneath his surface. He ran his fingers through his own hair and smiled as the heavenly body looming over him seemed to fall from the sky, seemed to collide with the damp earth just beside him. He could feel the blooming of red roses on the valleys of his cheeks and did his best to pull his eyes away from the heavenly body but it was just so, so hypnotic. He felt like a young boy as he nervously reached out and threaded his fingers into the warm reach of the star, his body threatening to catch fire as the familiar heat started dancing on the surface of his skin, slowly started boiling his insides. Waves of relief washed over him as the balminess of the touch overtook the cold that had been stored within him over the past few weeks; some time – too much time – had passed between this very moment and the last time had felt himself within the pull of the fiery form. “Does this mean that you’re, you know…? That you’re not upset with me or anything over…?” His voice was soft and filled with the uncertainty of a thousand college applicants but he had found his pride within the knowledge that he had finally mustered up the courage to ask the one thing that had been plaguing his mind for the past couple of weeks - months? “I just didn’t think you’d want to see me after… I mean, I would have been pretty pissed if he had said that about me and I…”

“Joãozinho,” Cristiano sighed out with a small smile playing on his face, shaking his head in reprimand as he rolled onto his side and started picking at the individual blades of grass, “…stop. Is this, is this honestly the reason you've been hiding from me? The reason you've been avoiding me for the past month and a half?” He groaned as he threw the pieces of green over his shoulder, pulling his eyes from the brown of the soil in exchange for the brown of the midfielder's eyes. Immediately he felt breathless, entranced. Mesmerized, he reached down and started to trace the bearded jawline of the younger man with the outside of his index finger, sighing as he lost himself in the other for a moment or two. He could feel João leaning into the touch and moved his thumb to play over the smooth, full lips of the other man as he pulled his own bottom lip between his teeth. "Honestly, you seem to be more upset about it than I could ever be," he breathed out as a small smile took hold of his features. "I mean, how could I have gotten upset about what he had said? It wasn't nasty and it wasn't vicious... It was actually quite..."

“…pointless.” João breathed out as he looked deep into the chocolate brown eyes of his capitão, a half-smile painted on his features as he attempted to taint the comments made. “It was a pointless and meaningless thing for him to say. He chose to wait until after he had been removed to say anything and I know he only said them because of our history but, but I know you, Cris.” It took every ounce of resolve he had to pull his eyes off of the older man but he managed to do so. He knew Cristiano was trying to lighten the comments so he shook his head dismissively, raised a hand as if to say "don't even try". "You can't lie to me about something like this, Cristiano. You can't... I know that his comments bothered you to some extent."

Cristiano shook his head at the words and reached down, using his index finger to pull João's attention back onto himself. “…or maybe I agreed with him?” Cristiano offered as he dropped his finger and placed an arm over the playmaker’s body, mindlessly starting to trace the curve of the smaller man’s hip. “You’ve always understood what it was he was trying to accomplish on the pitch, however dumb it may have been.” The older of the two chuckled out as he thought about the past six years. “…and you never get frustrated as easily as I do. You’re always calm, always collected, level headed. You were the reason we reached the semifinals of the Euro two years ago and you're the reason why I perform so well on the pitch for this country. You pull all the strings, make all the moves... I'm just your exclamation point, João. I don't mind being that, not at all, but maybe... Maybe Bento wasn't completely wrong to say that you would make a better captain than I ever could. I mean the guys…”

He didn’t want to hear anymore of Cristiano’s nonsense so he simply reached up and tugged on the collar of the shirt of the other man. João smiled as Cristiano seemed to bite his tongue immediately, as the scent of sweat, dirt, and some traces of Cris' musky cologne filled and overtook his senses, as the warm breath of his capitão fell softly against his own lips. He swallowed down his impulses, choked down his desire to close the oh-so-small gap that had formed between them, suppressed his urges to drown in the warmth of those lips within that very moment; he needed Cristiano to see him fully, to hear his words clearly, to feel their meaning within his soul. “You are the only capitão for this team.” His words were like stone, his gaze: fierce and piercing, but his smile was as soft as silk linen sheets. He pulled the sun down from above him, held it close to him as he pressed his lips into the searing heat of it, caught fire under the touch, and burned. 


	4. Fading (Miguel Veloso/Cristiano Ronaldo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Cristiano Ronaldo / Miguel Veloso**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> He knows what they were. He knows what they had been, what they had shared. Were and had been. A past that no longer was. The other was as vibrant as ever but he…? He was fading.

He can’t remember the smell of his cologne anymore. He can’t remember the taste of his flesh nor the sound, the true sound of his voice. He can’t remember how many smiles he has nor can he remember which of his laughs are fake, which are real. How many laughs does he have? He remembers that he loved him – once. He simply can’t remember why he had, can’t remember how he had fallen for the other man.

Quizzical looks in front of an open door, the other smiling just outside of the frame making his way in. A small peck on the cheek as he passes by and he can’t remember if he had usually felt something when the other did such things. A moment of silence as he tries to digest the arrival of the other. A moment before, “I’m shocked you haven’t forgotten about me.” An empty laugh in response and an expression of pity. He can’t remember if he had appreciated the sympathies of the other or if he had always been made to feel inferior, patronized in those moments. “You guys played extremely well against Serbia.”

“I can’t stand to see anyone filling that number four shirt who isn’t you, Migs.” A sigh as he looks through a few of the photos framed on a side table as if he had never seen them before. He shifts them around and studies the walls of the home before he smiles in approval. “It kills me not to have you there.”

It sounds empty. Distant. Void of any kind of real emotion. Courteous. Something said to make him feel better. Something to make him feel missed. Missed? He anxiously runs his hand along the back of his neck and through his hair, trying to figure out what would be an appropriate response for the other man. He knows what they were. He knows what they had been, what they had shared. Were and had been. A past that no longer was. The other was as vibrant as ever but he…? He was fading. “You seem to be doing just fine. Scoring winners against Denmark and Armenia? Assisting João’s assist against Serbia. I mean, shit, you’re fucking golden.” He tries to smile but he’s always been bad at faking things.

A defeated sigh and a distance rapidly closes between them. Inches apart, they stand. He feels his throat close up, his heart starting to palpitate – faster and faster it beats, sweat forming against his hairline… but it seems to be in all of the wrong ways. Had it always been? Still he remains unmoved. He becomes overwhelmed by the scent of the other man’s cologne: vanilla and sandalwood. Oh so suddenly, that he remembers. He sees the inches fade to centimeters, to millimeters, to nothing between them, feels the distance close between them, and he tastes the sugars of a sweet roll on the tongue of the other man, tastes the mint of some type of gum. Oh so suddenly, that he remembers.  He feels the lips of the other man working against his own, feels the other’s hands roaming about his body curiously, and he tries to remember if they had been anything more than that. Was a touch ever more than a touch between them? …and then he was without. Breaths bouncing against his skin, warm breath ghosting over his lips.

“It hurts not having you there, Miguel,” and he stops himself. Well aware that he is exposing a nerve, that he is at the verge of voicing a secret. Vulnerable: a word he would never allow to be used to describe himself in. Desperate. “…but it helps knowing that I can have you here.” He looks into those eyes, those brown eyes that just send his heart and his thoughts wild. They instill a sense of fear within him. A fear of being without them in his life. He kisses the other man again, with more desperation this time, with more urgency, with more meaning. ((Feel what I feel)).

He yields to the other man, allows himself to be guided to his bedroom, nods when he is asked if what is happening is okay. It is okay. (Why not?), he tells himself as he ignores the (Why?) that is resounding throughout his mind. He kisses the other back, encourages him, watches as Cristiano worships his body and silently wonders if it, if they had ever held any kind of meaning to him beyond this. He feels lips against his neck, teeth gently scraping against his collarbone, a tongue tracing the outlines of his muscles, and he feels his body responding in kind. He feels a fire inside of him as Cristiano covers his entire body, inside and out, with his presence. It’s euphoric, the way Cristiano consumes him, the way he goes absolutely mental under the touch of the attacker.

…but touches fade, as all things physical do, and he’s left breathless beside the other man. Empty again. He’s looking at him, between them, trying to see if there’s anything more than physical things there. More than a past, more than have beens. His sheets are clinging to their sweat drenched bodies and he can feel Cristiano’s eyes on him, searching for something. A glance up and he sees that they are filled with something: something full of meaning, something that makes them sparkle. In that moment, he wants to see what he sees. Feel what he feels.

He doesn’t know why he says it, he just does. Vulnerable? For Miguel he would be. For Miguel. “You’re my sun,” a cliché, he knows, but one that fits. “My universal center,” he sighs out as he traces the fine features of the other man. He runs his fingers through his hair, kisses his lips softly, delicately, and pulls the body of the other into his own. “You’re pretty much the only thing that’s keeping me alive right now.”

He bites his lips as the words sink in, loses himself to his thoughts until he hears the soft snores of the man beside him. A deep breath, a soft sigh. He carefully climbs out of bed, dresses himself, and looks at the man sleeping in his bed. He’s smiling softly and he seems to be sleeping on clouds, walking on them in his dreams. After a moment, he makes his way to the living room and out of the sliding glass doors, leaving them open to allow the evening’s breeze to sneak in. He smiles softly and sets himself atop of his rock wall, simply relieved to be with himself and his thoughts again. He can feel the warmth of the sun fading as the reaches of its light fall shorter and shorter over the horizons in front of him, watches as it fades to a dull orange. He chuckles. He is Cristiano’s sun. Destined to be in his life only some of the time. Thought of only in ways that benefit the recipient of his warmth. Always setting, falling from view: out of sight, out of mind. Fading. Destined to die out at some point in time. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually…

He allows his head to fall back, eyes sparkling as millions of stars shine brightly above him. Perspective: the only thing that made one star greater than the other. Planets: the only thing that made a star a sun. A billion stars. A million suns. All destined to die out at some point. He frowns as the words of the other man resonate within him from his memory and he extends his hands towards the heavens as if to hold one of the little suns but he allows his hand to fall immediately, distractedly. He chuckles again and looks over his shoulder back towards his home. No one wants to truly hold a sun. And no one wants to be an untouchable sun.

 


End file.
